Caring is Not an Advantage
by consultingtimelady1895
Summary: He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal. -Gregg Levoy Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship has always been difficult, and as they take their places in the world, they both find out if caring could be an advantage after all.
1. Here there be pirates

Sherlock, who had just reached the pivotal age of seven, sat in his room, making a blanket fort. Well, it wasn't actually a fort, more of a pirate ship. He'd just finished reading Treasure Island, and decided that the only worthwhile thing to do was to become a pirate.

The elder and self-proclaimed smarter brother by the name of Mycroft Holmes entered Sherlock's room, wondering what his little brother could be up to. He scowled when he saw how Sherlock had torn up his room despite Mummy constantly telling him to keep it neat and tidy.

"What are you doing?" he asked, mimicking his mother's often-used disciplinary tone.

Sherlock looked up. Just Mycroft. "Building a pirate ship. Obviously." He scowled at Mycroft's tone. He hated when his brother tried to act older than he was. "Can you help? Please?" he asked, using his most annoying tone.

"But it's not a _real _pirate ship," Mycroft complained.

"Not yet." Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, and made the biggest pleading eyes he could.

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when he saw the look on his baby brother's face. "I'm captain," he stated, climbing into the fort.

Sherlock pouted. "But it's my ship! And it's not ready. I need you to fix the sail, Mycroft. I can't reach that high," he said, looking annoyed at his own inadequacies.

Grinning proudly, Mycroft stretched himself to his full height and created a makeshift mast out what seemed to be Sherlock's bed sheet and the old broom from the attic. "There," he said happily. "Shall we weigh anchor?"

"Aye! Set sail for Tortuga!" Sherlock used his best pirate voice. He liked being a pirate. It was even fine that Mycroft was here. After all, a pirate captain needed a crew. It would be fun bossing him around, Sherlock thought with an impish grin.

Mycroft scowled once again and crossed his arms. "I said _I'm _captain. I'm _older_ than you!"

"So? It's _my_ ship. And I led a mutiny against you, so unless you follow my commands, you'll be sleeping with the fishes." Sherlock glared at Mycroft, challenging him.

"Mutiny? That's not fair!" Mycroft complained. He rose and went to grab for the pirate hat on Sherlock's head.

Sherlock ducked and scrambled away. "It's not meant to be fair." He stuck his tongue out at Mycroft.

"I order you to walk off the plank!" Mycroft said, giggling brightly as he managed to tackle his brother in the cramped fort, finally able to snatch the hat away.

Sherlock struggled to get Mycroft to let go. He squirmed, trying to get away. "You do realise I can swim. And that I've prepared a life boat," he said, scowling at Mycroft, but, unable to stay mad, burst into giggles as well.

"These seas are infested with sharks," Mycroft said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And giant squids and deadly jellyfish and giant sea dragons-"

"Lifeboat. Equipped with a harpoon," Sherlock retorted. He could do it. He could win the game of who could be more clever, despite the fact that Mycroft always seemed to win.

The older Holmes brother rolled his eyes and scrambled backwards, holding the hat tightly upon his head. "No, I threw your harpoon overboard and burned the lifeboat!" He stood, adopting a very captain-like pose. "Now, off to the bridge with you!" Mycroft grabbed a stray stick of wood lying on the floor and pointed it at Sherlock threateningly.

Sherlock looked at him defiantly. "You'll have to defeat me first!" he said, picking up another piece of wood and brandishing it threateningly.

Suddenly, the responsible part of Mycroft came through and he lowered his "sword". "Mummy says we shouldn't fight," he said, conflicted.

"Pirates don't have Mummys. Now, have at you!" Sherlock said, lunging with his makeshift sword.

Mycroft flinched back from the attack, never having been a fan of roughhousing. "Back to your station, scallywag!" he barked, clumsily attempting to block Sherlock's assault with his own weapon.

"I don't think so, landlubber! It'll be off to Davy Jones' locker with you!" Sherlock parried and lunged again, though not very hard. He wasn't trying to hurt Mycroft, after all.

Mycroft hissed as Sherlock landed a hit on his shoulder. "Ow," he complained. Glancing back at his brother and seeing the sudden guilty and concerned look on Sherlock's young face, Mycroft dropped to his knees dramatically and clutched at where he had been hit. "You've killed me," he cried out, his face contorted in mock-pain.

"Ha! Fear me, for I am a dread pirate captain. Beg for mercy and I'll let you live," Sherlock said, trying to keep a straight face, but bursting into giggles. He liked it when Mycroft played along. It was a good distraction from everything. "I may even promote you to first mate," he added.

Mycroft grinned at Sherlock's bubbly giggles but quickly hid it to maintain his character. "I'll never beg!"

"Then prepare your soul for Davy Jones, ruffian. For I will show you no mercy. Walk to the plank," he ordered, managing to keep himself under control. Sherlock kept the stick pointed at Mycroft's back, occasionally poking him a bit.

"You can't kill me, _captain_," Mycroft replied tauntingly. "Want to know why?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, frowning, rather confused at the sudden turn of events.

"Because I can summon the monstrous Kraken to destroy your ship!"

Sherlock looked down at Mycroft, disappointed. "You can't do that- it doesn't exist," he pouted.

Mycroft gazed back at him with playful scorn in his eyes. "You won't be saying that when your ship is at the bottom of the sea and you're being eaten alive!"

"The Kraken is supposed to be a giant squid. Squids don't eat people, Mycroft," Sherlock stated flatly.

Mycroft gave him a look. "Oh, hush. It'll drag you down with its monstrous tentacle arms and drown you."

Sherlock looked defiantly at Mycroft. "I'd like to see it try!"

Smirking devilishly, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's ankle and, catching Sherlock off-guard, managed to make him lose his balance and fall to the floor. Sherlock yelped out, surprised, but uninjured. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his thin neck, not constricting, but thoroughly annoying to his little, physically smaller brother.

"Now you've done it-" Mycroft drawled teasingly, "The Kraken will drag the both of us to Davy Jones' Locker!"

Sherlock wriggled, trying to get free. "Mycroft!" he whined.

Mycroft did not relent, finding his brother's struggles amusing. "Your ship is doomed," he added cheerfully.

"Then a captain goes down with his ship. Let go, so I can meet my fate," Sherlock said, resigned.

Laughing, Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's already messy hair, released him, and then lazily sat up, cross legged. "I win, I'm captain," he proclaimed, placing the hat on his own head once again.

"No, you're not," Sherlock said resolutely. "The ship is sinking, and you burned the lifeboats. Now we're both going to be eaten." He glowered at Mycroft.

"I'm captain in the afterlife, then." Mycroft stuck his tongue out at Sherlock.

"There's no afterlife," Sherlock said seriously. When people died, they were either burned or buried. That was what had happened to Grandmother. He knew that there wasn't anything else after dying.

Mycroft paused. "Probably." He glanced slyly at his brother. "I still win."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. "But one day, I will. Just wait," he warned.

Smirking, Mycroft removed the pirate hat and tosses it onto Sherlock's face. "Don't make me wait too long," he said, stretching lazily.

Sherlock grabbed the pirate hat and set it down. "I'll do my best," he informed his annoying brother menacingly.

The older of the two smirked, an expression that infuriated Sherlock, before glancing around them at Sherlock's makeshift ship. He _should_ tell Sherlock to clean it up before Mummy saw, but he rather liked the fort.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was now bored. Playing pirate had been entertaining enough, but it was over now. He glanced over at Mycroft, wondering if he would have any ideas.

Feeling Sherlock's bright eyes on him, Mycroft looked at him steadily. "What, bored already?" He sighed.

"Obviously," Sherlock pouted. "Please?" he said, knowing that Mycroft would know what he meant.

"It's late, Sherlock," Mycroft said regretfully. Then, he scowled. "I came up here to tell you to go to bed, and you distracted me."

"But I'm not tired! Besides, sleeping is a waste of time, Mycroft," Sherlock complained, frowning.

"I'll be in trouble if you don't," he said, annoyed. Their parents could always tell if the two of them didn't sleep enough. Mycroft had been put in charge in their temporary absence tonight to make sure that Sherlock didn't burn down the house and ate and slept properly.

"You never get in trouble. Please?" Sherlock begged. Mycroft had a talent for getting out of tight spots, while Sherlock usually got caught. Then again, Mycroft never really did anything bad.

"Just go to sleep," Mycroft laughed, "I'll help you clean this up, alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, resigned to the fact that he'd have to go to bed. Though he still had that torch hidden away. Maybe he could do some reading. He began cleaning the sheets up, dropping them all in a big pile in a corner of the room.

Gathering the various brooms and other mysterious pieces of wood, probably old parts of furniture in the attic, Mycroft recognized the silent, carefully planning look on Sherlock's face. "No reading," he growled.

"But why not?" Sherlock whined. Really, things were too boring otherwise. "I'll be bored!"

"If you sleep now, you'll be a pirate in your dreams." Mycroft grinned at him. "You'll have a better first mate than me in there." He turned around and placed the sticks into a neat pile that he would collect later.

"All right," Sherlock said hopping onto the bed. He buried himself in the covers, making a nest of sorts out of them. The sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he would wake up. "Night, Mycroft!" he said, yawning.

Smiling at his success in sending Sherlock to bed and avoiding a conflict with their parents, Mycroft went over and patted his little brother on the head, knowing it would irritate him. Sherlock scowled deeply and glared at him from under his blankets, producing the desired effect. Mycroft smirked teasingly at him, but with a bit of brotherly affection showing through his eyes. "Try not to get lost at sea," he said with a wink. "Goodnight, brother dear."


	2. Of leaving and mind palaces

Glancing at the antique grandfather clock in the entrance hall of their home, Mycroft tightened his coat around himself and opened the door, stepping outside into the chilly air. It was time to go fetch Sherlock from school. That had become his job now that he was considered old enough, and Mummy was always very busy and Father... Well. He walked briskly, not wanting to be in the cold air any longer than he needs to.

Sherlock, now ten years old, sat on the bench, reading and waiting for Mycroft. He needed something to distract him from the constant noise, the constant influx of information. There was so much of it, always! He tried absorbing himself in his book, but one of the older students came up. "Hey, freak. Whatcha reading? Think you're so much better than all of us /normal/ people?" he said. Sherlock tried ignoring him, hoping that he would leave, but the 'idiot', as Sherlock had begun calling them, grabbed his book. "Oh, what you gonna do now, freak?" he taunted. Sherlock looked up and glared. "Give it back!"

It wasn't a long walk, but it took Mycroft much longer than he liked. It was cold, and he was worried as well. Worried for Sherlock. There had been numerous occasions where Sherlock had been picked on by his classmates, and Mycroft had had to intervene. He hoped that today would not be the day that Sherlock would actually get very badly hurt, and Mycroft sped up a little in his worry.

The older boy said, sneering, "You going to make me?" He pushed Sherlock. "I don't think so, loser." Sherlock didn't say anything, just picked himself up, and kicked the older kid. He knew that it was a bad idea, but he had had enough. Anyways, he was small enough to be able to get away, if he needed to. The older boy lunged at Sherlock, and he scrambled away.

As Mycroft finally arrived at the school that Sherlock now attended and that Mycroft had at his age as well, it didn't take him long to find his little brother. What he had feared seemed to be occurring, and the older Holmes brother quickly accessed the situation and the best plan of action. Anger rising as he saw some other, larger kid chasing after Sherlock, Mycroft sprinted over to them, shouting his brother's name as he did so.

Sherlock stopped. Good, Mycroft was here. Looking at him, he said, "What took you so long?"

A little out of breath, Mycroft didn't answer him and just looked him over quickly for any injuries. Sherlock doesn't seem to be bleeding or too upset at the moment, so Mycroft exhaled slowly, relieved. He straightened and turned his head to give Sherlock's chaser a cold, malicious look that he had perfected over the years. The bully stopped dead in his tracks, glancing between him and Sherlock, and then wordlessly backed away and ran off.

Mycroft watched him go, pure hatred in his eyes. Shaking his head a bit, he looked down at Sherlock who was staring at him questioningly.

"Thanks," Sherlock said quietly, looking down at the ground. He hadn't expected Mycroft to show up; hadn't counted on any sort of help. He'd been taught to take care of himself, not count on anyone. Then again, there weren't many people he _could_ count on. Just Mummy and Mycroft.

He didn't say anything, just arched one eyebrow and nodded curtly. Mycroft turned around, his eyes scanning the school grounds, and began to walk back the way he came with Sherlock following him close behind.

"Did you get him back?" he said after a few silent minutes had passed.

"Yeah." Sherlock smiled a bit proudly, taking longer strides so he could keep up.

"Good." Mycroft smirked at him. Then, he sobered a bit. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "I know it's not your fault, but you really should try to avoid fights."

Sherlock pouted and said, "I try. But they're idiots."

The older of the pair nodded. "Yes, they are... and idiots tend to fight amongst themselves until they're all dead. That's how wars start." Mycroft rolled his eyes and then looked back at Sherlock meaningfully. "Even the smarter ones get pulled into their violence."

"So? The smart ones can figure out how to win, and then it doesn't matter," Sherlock said, frowning. He didn't understand why Mycroft was telling him this. It wasn't as if it would change anything.

Mycroft sighed, glancing around them as they walked home. "Never mind. Listen, Sherlock, I'm not always going to be here to intervene when-" he gestured with one hand in a random motion in front of Sherlock's smaller form.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, confused. "I _can_ take care of myself," he insisted, then added, "What do you mean, you're not going to be there?"

Mycroft's mouth quirked oddly, and he turned his face straight forward. No point in lying to Sherlock and drawing this out. He had to be direct. "I mean, Sherlock, that next year I'll be going to University."

Sherlock frowned, looking at the ground. "But-" He didn't know what else to say. Mycroft couldn't _leave_! That would mean that Sherlock would be completely alone. He wouldn't be able to stand it. It was hard enough now. Without Mycroft to talk to, Sherlock didn't know what he would do. He didn't know if he would leave the house, since he hated it already.

Mycroft stopped, having heard the panicky tone of voice in Sherlock's protest. He turned around and looked at Sherlock, a sort of plea in his eyes. "You'll have Mummy and Father, and I will write you. Constantly." He gave Sherlock a, what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Sherlock looked at him, hurt clear in his eyes. Mycroft didn't want him. Nobody ever did. Still, at least Mycroft wasn't leaving yet. He'd said next year. That left Sherlock with a few months of getting used to not being able to count on Mycroft. "It won't matter," he said quietly.

"Sherlock," Mycroft continued, feeling incredibly guilty. He knew how much Sherlock relied on him. "I _have_ to go. I wish you could come with me, really."

"Fine," Sherlock said, emotionless. He may as well start distancing himself now. It would make things a lot easier later on.

Mycroft stared after his brother as he started walking away from him. "Sherlock," he called, catching up to him easily. "It won't be so bad..." He knew full well that it might be.

"Whatever. I've got lots of homework, so I'll be spending the rest of the day in my room. Please don't bother me," Sherlock said, as politely as he could. Alright, so maybe he was lying, but still...

Mycroft looked at him imploringly. Sherlock was... angry, sad, scared, even? As they finally reached the front door of their house, Mycroft opened it and held it for Sherlock to go inside first.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," he said quietly and genuinely.

Sherlock looked at him and said, "Yeah, me too." He knew that it was time to grow up. Time to leave things behind. He went inside, and immediately went to his hidey hole, instead of to his room. It was a small, dark, quiet space, in one of the many empty rooms. Sherlock would be able to think there, would be able to get rid of the noise in his head. Right now, all he wanted was to be alone. For everything to stop.

Mycroft didn't follow him immediately. He could tell from the look on Sherlock's young face that he had hurt him badly. He had to leave so he could do better things and then help Sherlock do even _better_ things. That was his plan and he had to stick to it. He needed to have a talk with his little brother. Mycroft knew where to find him. He entered a dark empty room knowing that Sherlock would be hiding in here. He made his presence known by letting the floorboards creak loudly under his feet.

Sherlock jumped. The sudden noise had startled him after the few moments of blessed quiet. He turned around and saw Mycroft. "Oh," Sherlock said quietly. He didn't want Mycroft here. He just wanted to be alone. Why couldn't anyone ever understand that? It wasn't that he didn't like people, exactly; it was more that they were so _loud_. All of the details would overwhelm him, and he didn't know what to do about it. This was Sherlock's secret place, his sanctuary. And now, he would have to find a new one.

Mycroft approached him slowly, his eyes dark and apologetic. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "Let me explain."

"Could you just please go away, Mycroft?" Sherlock pleaded.

His brother shook his head. "No, I want to stay here with you." His tone was sincere and held deeper meanings.

Sherlock turned around, hugging himself. "Please. I just want to be alone for a little while."

Sighing very quietly, Mycroft stepped up right behind him. "I don't want you to be alone."

Sherlock looked at him, begging with his eyes. "I need it. Please," he repeated.

Mycroft scowled then, and answered with a sharp "No," before suddenly pulling Sherlock down to the floor with him. He sat his little brother down across from him and stared directly into his eyes. "Sherlock, listen to me. Please."

Sherlock looked at him. "What?" What could Mycroft possibly want? Was it really too much to ask to be allowed a moment of peace?

"I'm not abandoning you, alright? I know that's what you're thinking."

"I don't _care_," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes, you do, stop that," Mycroft snapped back at him. He leaned forward and grabbed Sherlock's small hands in his own. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you but I wanted to. I thought you should know earlier so you wouldn't be so angry at me later."

Sherlock sat, unmoving. "I'm not _angry_." He wasn't, not really. Not anymore. Now, he was just tired and sort of empty.

"You're upset," Mycroft answered for him. "Sherlock, I won't be gone forever and we have a few more years here anyway." He gave him a half-smile. "We could make more pirate ship forts..."

"No. I don't want to do that anymore." Sherlock could see that Mycroft was trying, but he didn't understand why. What was the point in being happy, if he was just going to be...sad again?

Mycroft looked away from Sherlock, then. He sighed tiredly. "I'm a very bad big brother, aren't I?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't think that Mycroft was that bad, but there was no way he would ever say that. Besides, what would the point be? Soon enough, Mycroft would be leaving to start his own life.

Mycroft took his silence as a yes. "Sherlock," he sighed again and inched closer to his little brother. "I swear, I am not leaving you forever. I'm doing this for the both of us, really."

"Fine," he said, not really caring. If Mycroft thought that Sherlock listened, then maybe he would leave him alone. And besides, how would being entirely alone be good for him? He didn't really mind it, but he liked having someone to talk to occasionally. It got his mind off other things.

He read Sherlock's face intently, trying to deduce what his little brother was thinking. His short, one word answers indicated that he was upset. Very much so. Sherlock loved to talk and Mycroft was always the one who listened to him. Ah. He knew how to get his brother to talk. Mycroft's brow scrunched up in a look of concentration. "Sherlock... what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid!" Sherlock said indignantly.

Mycroft tilted his head and raised one thin eyebrow, asking Sherlock to answer.

Sherlock looked down at the floor, not meeting Mycroft's all too observant eyes. "That I'm going to be all alone," he mumbled, and added, "And I don't want to be alone with my thoughts."

He reached out a hand and shook Sherlock's shoulder affectionately, a small smile on his face. "I'll be alone, too. So we'll be together in that."

Mycroft then removed his touch and clasped his hands underneath his chin. "As for your thoughts... You could try mental organisation like I do."

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "What's that?"

Mycroft looked at him steadily. "Organisation," he replied dryly.

Sherlock scowled. "How? Would it help?"

"Yes, it works for me." Mycroft shrugged.

"So, how?" he asked, frustrated. If there was a chance for him to be normal, for it all to stop, Sherlock would gladly take it. He looked at Mycroft, the desperation clear in his eyes.

The older brother sighed. "I can't really explain it. You just have to... organise and catalog every thought, every feeling, every sort of information in your own mind."

Sherlock frowned, looking slightly confused. That wasn't very specific, but still. It was something that he hadn't tried, so it couldn't hurt. Biting his lip, he said, "I'll try." He doubted that he would be able to 'organise' as well as Mycroft, but it was worth a shot.

"Think of it like a house or a castle with multiple rooms," Mycroft supplied helpfully, "Rooms that store different information."

Sherlock nodded. "Like a palace? With each room containing something different? And then you can put things away for later?" he asked, making sure he understood. He liked this idea, it sounded fun. He could begin working on his…Mind Palace later.

Mycroft smiled a bit. "Yes."

"Thanks," Sherlock said quietly, looking down at the ground. He didn't like having to ask for help, and he was still somewhat upset that Mycroft would be leaving him. He just learned to hide it better. Hiding things was a good strategy. That way, no one knew enough to hurt you.

Mycroft's smile wavered slightly. "Don't thank me just yet."


	3. Searching for an escape

Mycroft had left five years ago. For a while, he still came around, when he wasn't too busy with college. As soon as he finished, however, he was offered a job in the government. He never did say what it was exactly, but Sherlock knew it was extremely important, or rather, it was important to Mycroft. So important that he couldn't find time for anything anymore. So, over those five long years, Sherlock had grown apart from him. He couldn't help feeling abandoned, betrayed. He was alone again, though he was used to it by now. If Mycroft had really cared, he would have stayed. Now, whenever he used to stop by, he would attempt to mother Sherlock, especially as Mummy had died just the year before. That had been the tipping point for Sherlock. There wasn't anything for him at home anymore, so he left. He lived on the streets for a while, staying out of the way of the CCTV, just wanting to be left alone. Eventually, he discovered that drugs helped to block some of the noise out. They made him feel normal, for a moment. The Mind Palace had helped, but some days, it wasn't enough. Sherlock needed to do something with the information, not just have it sitting around in his head. Unfortunately, his new found freedom came to an end, when he found himself at a crime scene as one of the suspects. He'd managed to prove what had actually happened, but Mycroft had found him. Now, he was stuck in the back of a sleek black car, refusing to say anything, much less look at Mycroft.

Mycroft did not speak. He only looked at his little brother with no expression on his face. For the first time in a while, he had no idea what to say.

Sherlock was extremely thin, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair matted and dull.

He had found his brother leaving Scotland Yard thanks to some inside sources, and had convinced him to enter the car. Sherlock remained silent and the tension between them was almost physically painful. Mycroft had them driven to an undisclosed location and when they arrived, Sherlock refused to leave the vehicle. So, Mycroft stayed with him as well, after motioning for the driver to leave.

Years of intense studying at University and prestigious work in the government had not prepared Mycroft for anything like this. He could only look at his younger brother. He had so much to say but he had no idea how to start.

"Sherlock," he managed quietly after about five long minutes of dead silence.

Sherlock gave him the freezing look he had perfected after two years of secondary school. He didn't care what Mycroft had to say. Couldn't he have left him alone? Sherlock had been perfectly fine on his own, not dependent on anyone, doing whatever he liked. He didn't have to care about what other people thought, didn't have to care about consequences. On the streets, all that mattered was surviving. It gave him something to focus on, something to work at, figure out. He had hated school- being forced to do mindless work that didn't matter. Sherlock just didn't care. It was all pointless. He was alone, and had learned to get along just fine that way.

Mycroft's face fell into a dark grimace at Sherlock's icy stare. Never had he seen that look on his younger brother's face. It hurt the older Holmes brother in a way that he had not felt in almost a decade. He was forced to look away.

"You cannot continue this, Sherlock." Mycroft braced himself for an explosive reaction.

"And whyever not? I can do whatever I like," Sherlock said sharply. It wasn't as if Mycroft cared. He had already proven that his ambition was more important than anything else. So Sherlock had also stopped caring. Caring didn't help anything. It was useless.

Mycroft knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking. He blamed his elder sibling for his situation and unfortunately, that was rather true. Mycroft had hoped for the best when he had become so deeply involved in his work. He had hoped Sherlock would be strong enough to hold his own in Mycroft's absence.

The nearly-skeletal remnants of his baby brother told him otherwise.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said slowly, "you need help."

"I don't need anyone's help," he hissed. How dare Mycroft even think that Sherlock would need _help_! He was more than capable of taking care of himself. Hadn't Sherlock proved it over the past year? Most people wouldn't have done as well as he had.

"You were found in the middle of a back alley with a dead man and a firearm in your hand," Mycroft snapped forcefully, "You were drugged out of your mind-" he turned his head away, clenching his jaw tightly.

"It is not by your own doing that you were released from police custody. All evidence pointed to _you_, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, eyes like chips of ice. "I sorted it out. The police are idiots who can't see the obvious facts in front of them. And for your information, Mycroft, I was not, as you put it, 'drugged out of my mind'." That little 'mishap' had had nothing to do with him. He'd stumbled upon the dead man and had been looking the gun over to see if he could figure out who had done it, when the police showed up. Idiots, all of them.

"_Obvious _or not, you would have been convicted of murder."

Mycroft turned his head to look back on his brother. He looked like death. A wave of absolute guilt washed over him as he truly began to realise that Sherlock had turned to dangerous substances because of his absence and their mother's death. Mycroft had promised him that he wouldn't abandon him and yet he had, inadvertently. If something wasn't done, his brother would only continue to destroy his mind and body with his dangerous addictions. Sherlock had no one to care for him and had obviously shut Mycroft out of his heart. With a pained expression on his face, Mycroft kept his sharp eyes locked with his brother's own dark, dulled pupils. What he was about to say and go through with would permanently taint his name with hatred in Sherlock's mind.

"You are to be cared for in a rehabilitation center. It is the best in the nation, I made sure myself." He averted his eyes when Sherlock's widened in a mix of emotion that Mycroft noted as fury, terror, and hurt.

"No. You can't!" he said, shaking furiously. He would not be locked up. No. Sherlock would never forgive Mycroft. Never. This was the ultimate betrayal. He _couldn't_! Sherlock hated him, so business-like, so completely uncaring. Hated his blank expression, hated how smug he sounded.

"I am sorry." Mycroft let go of his trained coldness for one moment. He looked at Sherlock desperately, wishing now to see the bright and colorful eyes of his little brother that he had known when they were young. "Sherlock, I am sorry. This is entirely my fault and I am doing what I can to fix this, to fix everything."

"I don't need _fixing_!" Sherlock's eyes positively radiated hate. He decided that he liked it far better when Mycroft was being cold. He'd gotten used to it now, and to see something else was not normal. Sherlock despised people trying to 'fix' him. When Mycroft had left, their father had sent Sherlock to multiple psychologists, therapists, sociologists, all trying to figure out what was wrong with him. All he wanted was to be left alone. He'd been glad when Father had died soon before Mummy- it meant he wouldn't be analysed and tested and 'fixed' any more. But of course, Mycroft wouldn't know any of that. Because he wasn't there. And now, Sherlock had one more person think that he was _wrong_.

Mycroft's thin mouth twitched and he averted his eyes from Sherlock, feeling the pure hatred radiate from them. "Will you go willingly?" He asked quietly, pain laced in his voice. This was harder for him than any test he had taken, than any issue in national security had he had had to deal with. He was being forced to put his own brother away because he had abandoned him for what he saw now as selfish reasons. His brother was in danger of accidentally injuring himself or others and without intervention, Mycroft feared that he would one day be forced to look upon Sherlock and those bright and intelligent eyes would not look back.

"No," Sherlock said simply, knowing that there would be consequences. If he was to be put away, he wouldn't make it easy. Right now, he despised Mycroft for being emotional. It was a deviation from the norm, the norm that Mycroft himself had inadvertently taught him. Emotions were distractions, and distractions created mistakes. All of the emotions made him remember the old days, the days that he had put aside. Those were the dreams of a child, and Sherlock wasn't a child anymore. He had learned to grow up, or be hurt, all over again.

Mycroft nodded slowly. He had prepared for the inevitable struggle. The car was parked behind the rehabilitation center and it was dark. He had people waiting to take Sherlock away, and he had the syringe that would prevent Sherlock's fight from becoming violent hidden in his coat pocket. Mycroft wasn't stupid and he knew that Sherlock was aware of the syringe.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock," he murmured one last time.

With quick precision, Mycroft took advantage of his brother's weakened state. Twisting awkwardly in the cramped space of the car, he managed to grab hold of Sherlock's dominant arm and held it away from himself as Sherlock tried to claw at him, snarling vehemently.

Mycroft held him there, and extracted the syringe from his coat. He darted his hand forward and injected it into Sherlock's shoulder where it would soon take effect and Sherlock would become unconscious.

"Damn you, Mycroft!" Sherlock blinked spots out of his vision, fighting to stay conscious. He could tell that the drug wasn't working as quickly as it should have. Sherlock had, it seemed, built up a slight resistance to drugs. It didn't really matter, though. In a matter of moments, a wall of black descended on him, taking everything away, leaving him alone in the dark.

Mycroft blinked his eyes rapidly, tearing his gaze away from the limp form of Sherlock. He opened the door of the vehicle and immediately a group from the rehab center came forward. They said nothing, thankfully, and Mycroft nodded curtly, motioning them to the car where Sherlock remained.

No amounts of apologies would ever restore Mycroft to where he had been in Sherlock's heart. Mycroft had known that their relationship was strained by his leaving home so many years ago, but now Mycroft had become his enemy. He had taken away his freedom and his substances and Sherlock would never forgive him for it unless a miracle by some higher power came to Sherlock and made him understand that Mycroft only wanted to protect him.

Shutting down the wall of ice and steel over himself that many powerful figures around the world had come to know over his once again, Mycroft chose to walk, alone, back to downtown London. He would be keeping close tabs on Sherlock's stay at the rehab center, but he would never visit him in person. He couldn't for his and Sherlock's sake.


	4. The road not taken

Mycroft Holmes had been in touch with the Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard.

"No," he had hissed into his mobile, "You are not permitted to consult him, do you understand?"

There was a momentary silence on the other end. Then, the voice spoke quietly and Mycroft had to clench his other hand in a fist to prevent himself from yelling into the device.

"It is _not_ good for him. It is dangerous and I will not have Sherlock Holmes lying dead in the middle of a crime scene because you are too incompetent to do your own work. _Do._ _You_. _Understand_?"

Silence. A murmured but clear positive answer.

"Good," Mycroft snapped and ended the call. He slammed his phone down into the desk beside him and then steepled his hands together, breathing slowly to calm himself down.

He was making the right decision, he told himself. Sherlock would only get himself killed if he were to work with the police force. Too many guns, too many dangerous people, and too much ample opportunity to get his hands on more illegal substances. Sherlock would be fine. He had been fine since he had gotten out of rehab for the second time. Since then, it had been nearly six months and he had never once contacted Mycroft. That was fine. Mycroft understood. He kept surveillance on his younger brother anyway, watching constantly for any sign of relapse.

Today, Mycroft had been informed that Sherlock was seen on a crime scene with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Immediately, Mycroft had assumed that Sherlock had been found under suspicion of drugs or murder _again_ and had begun preparing to intervene again. However, his source assured him that Sherlock was somehow _helping _the investigation and was not actually the one being investigated. Mycroft had been momentarily stunned and then had immediately contacted the DI.

This so called Greg Lestrade had been rather defensive, saying that he had been part of the team that had mistakenly arrested Sherlock Holmes previously before his placement into rehab, seven years ago. DI Lestrade had insisted that Sherlock was safe and seemed to be enjoying working with them. They could even solve the case now that Sherlock had pointed certain things out to them.

Mycroft could not let him work in that field. He had to protect Sherlock even if his help was unwanted. This Greg Lestrade did not know what was best for Sherlock. Sherlock was _Mycroft's_ little brother and he was the only person he had. He had to do everything he could to protect him, even if it made Sherlock despise him even more.

Sherlock was excited. For the first time in his life, he had found something worth his time. The distraction he had longed for, for so long. Something he could consider doing for the rest of his life. 'Consulting detective'- that had a nice ring to it. It had been exhilarating working out the puzzle of the triple murder. It had let him put his brain to work, given him something to do with all of the information. Finally. He couldn't wait for Lestrade to call him up again. Lestrade had said that he would send some cold cases over, since there didn't seem to be any new ones. It would be fairly simple and tedious, but it would give Sherlock the distraction he needed. Drugs were all fine, but they didn't last. And eventually, you had to keep taking more. Solving cases was much better. It was something that actually managed to give him pleasure, something to live for. Suddenly, Sherlock's mobile rang. He picked it up and answered coolly, masking any excitement beneath a mask of indifference. An apologetic voice came through, mumbling a few words, at which Sherlock hung up, frozen. No. Mycroft couldn't do this. He couldn't take away the one thing that mattered. And Sherlock knew that he could not be persuaded to change his mind. Which meant that Sherlock had nothing. Again, everything had been taken away from him. He had attempted to find some form of happiness, and Mycroft had stolen any chance of it. Sherlock had nothing to live for. Not anymore. Very calmly and methodically, he went and got his old 'kit' out. Yes, he'd been clean for a few months now, but he'd kept some cocaine, just in case. Right, three doses should do it. What was the point in living, if he had nothing to live for?

First dose. It was wonderful. He could think in peace. Maybe he'd have that peace forever, once this was over. He waited to get off the high he was on, before injecting the second dose. Soon. Soon it would all be over.

He sent out a text to Lestrade, just to make sure that the DI wouldn't feel guilty. Just a short one. /_Thank you_. SH/

The more he thought about it, the worse Mycroft felt. Lestrade had said that Sherlock seemed happy and invested in the work... Maybe, just maybe, this was what Sherlock needed.

And Mycroft had taken that away from him. His mobile buzzed, suddenly. He grabbed it and glanced over the text. It was a forwarded message from DI Lestrade. Mycroft frowned deeply. 'Thank you. -SH,' it read.

He mouthed the words silently. What would his brother be grateful for?

There was one more thing to do. The last thing. For some reason, it felt right. It would bring closure. One more text, just one. /_Goodbye. SH_/

As Mycroft was reading into Greg Lestrade's text, his phone buzzed with a second text.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft was frozen in fear. No. _No_.

He jumped up and called numerous contacts of his, sending reliable and quick people to where he knew Sherlock would be. Where Sherlock was-

His throat constricted as he found himself unable to suppress his overpowering emotions. Mycroft hoped against hope that perhaps he was wrong. That he was only over-thinking the text message and that Sherlock was just sending odd texts for no particular reason.

But Mycroft Holmes was not brought into the center of the government activities for being wrong.

He rushed out of his residence and into a black car that was waiting for him. Quickly, he told the driver where to go and tried to calm his rising anxiety. He had little time.

Sherlock knew that it would be soon. The third would be the last. Already, he could feel his heart beating much faster than normal. Just a constant thrum in his chest. The only thing he heard right now. He was so cold. Sherlock figured that that was the hyperthermia setting in. Soon, soon. The word beat a constant rhythm in his head, in time to the beating of his heart.

There were people already there. Hurriedly, Mycroft told them to enter the flat using the spare key left on the windowsill beside the door. Sherlock would be less angry at strangers entering his flat than Mycroft himself.

As if from very far away, Sherlock heard footsteps. Voices. No. No! He could almost feel himself getting a panic attack, which was one of the symptoms, he thought distantly. However, he managed to push it away. No distractions. Trying to blink the fog out of his eyes, he looked for the last syringe. The final one. It wasn't time yet, but if he didn't find it now, then even this would be taken away. Everything gone.

They got him. They found him alive, but barely. Mycroft's suspicions were correct, damn him. Three syringes, two already injected. He was sprawled on the floor of his flat, breathing erratically. They found him reaching for the last syringe... the final one.

Mycroft quickly told his driver to alter his route to the hospital- no need to go to Sherlock's flat now. He was being taken away right now, alive, thank God.

Sherlock found himself unable to care that his attempt had failed. He didn't feel anything, just emptiness. An emptiness that slowly engulfed him, taking the world away and leaving the silent darkness in its place.

Sherlock had stabilized. After a long night of intensive care, Sherlock had come back from the edge. He would be okay as long as there were no more future attempts...

Mycroft stepped into the small hospital room slowly, hesitantly. Pale sunlight shone through the blinds of the single window. His eyes locked onto Sherlock's prone form on the white hospital bed. He seemed to be asleep. Mycroft could see where the needles had gone into the crook of his left elbow. There were old scars along with the two more recent puncture wounds.

"God..." he breathed quietly, his throat constricted. He stepped closer to his little brother lying there on the bed, his brother so pale and sickly and now a suicide survivor...

Sherlock could feel the blackness receding, fading away like mist in sunlight. He almost wanted to shout for it to come back. Slowly, he felt himself regaining consciousness. He could see light through his eyelids. Why was there light, and not the blessed dark? How could he have failed at the one last thing left to him? Sherlock didn't open his eyes, not wanting to know where he was, not caring, not wanting to be reminded of his failure.

Sherlock's eyes were opening. In that moment, Mycroft felt a rush of feeling and he found himself struggling to suppress it. It was going to be worse now. He didn't know how to stop this. This was his own fault. Sherlock had tried to end his life because of Mycroft's actions. He looked down at his brother, clenching his jaw tightly.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room. Of course he would be stuck in a hospital. Why couldn't they just let him go? He noticed Mycroft standing in the corner and immediately closed his eyes again. He didn't want to deal with Mycroft's lecturing now. Especially since it was his fault. Though Sherlock had to admit, he had been contemplating this for a while now. In all honesty, Sherlock didn't care whether he lived or died. It didn't make a difference either way.

Sherlock's eyes had rested on him for one fleeting moment. Only one tiny second. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. What could you possibly say when your own little brother was lying in a hospital after a suicide attempt? What could you say when it was your own fault that he would even think about such a thing?

Sherlock knew that he wouldn't be trying again. It hadn't gotten him anywhere, and was unlikely to. So he would 'stay alive', continue to exist, not really doing anything, not living. What did it matter, anyways? He hoped Mycroft would leave. More than anything, he prayed for him to just go. Sherlock was apathetic enough, without having to explain himself. In a corner of his mind, he observed that he seemed to be going through withdrawal already. Wonderful.

Mycroft was at a complete loss. He could easily prevent World War Three easily (or cause it, if he chose to), but he didn't know how to help his own brother. Unable to find the answer in himself, he had to ask the only other person who could.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" He spoke in a hushed voice. "I don't... I don't understand anymore."

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, looking strangely empty. No emotion, no anything. Looking at Mycroft, he answered in a hollow voice, "For one moment, I had what I wanted. And then you took it away. I didn't see a point to any of this anymore." Sherlock wasn't trying to blame Mycroft, he was only telling the truth. He just felt so _empty_.

"I thought it would be better for you. I wanted you to be safe."

"Exactly. You constantly think about what you think I need, not about what I want. Taking the only thing I have left- some sense of control," Sherlock explained wearily. He didn't know why he was saying any of this, but suspected that it was more withdrawal symptoms, which meant that the massive headache was on its way. It was all so pointless. Everything.

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but once again he had no words. Neither of them wanted to have this talk. It was tedious... but necessary.

"Then what, Sherlock." Mycroft stared at the monitor that showed his younger brother's pulsing heartbeat. "What would you have me do?"

"Just leave me alone." There was nothing else to say. Sherlock looked out the window with dead eyes, not really seeing any of it.

Mycroft lowered his head. "I can't do that, Sherlock."

He didn't reply, and the moment of silence stretched on. Of course Mycroft couldn't. If he did, Sherlock would be able to do anything, which could quite possibly ruin Mycroft's precious reputation. Naturally, ambition was most important.

"It's not for my own _reputation_, if that's what you're thinking," Mycroft snapped suddenly. His loud tone caused Sherlock to wince. "I never wanted to see you like this, Sherlock." A flood of words came to him at last. He took them gratefully. "I was only trying to protect you, and the most danger you encounter always seems to come from yourself. I thought I made the right choice in sending you to a rehabilitation center and I thought I was making the right choice in not allowing you to work with Scotland Yard." His eyes make contact with Sherlock's and they locked there. Sherlock's eyes were unreadable. He exhaled slowly and clenched his eyes shut. "I do not know how to make you understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him intensely, desperately. "Let me make my own decisions. Stop trying to fix me. _That's _your 'right choice'." If Mycroft did listen for once, then Sherlock could see hope. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to partly forgive him. Maybe.

"I am not-" Mycroft glared down at Sherlock, but when he saw his brother's expression, his sentence fell. For one moment, there was no hatred or disdain in his face. Mycroft looked back and he remembered how they were as children. Then, the cold reality of the present returned and he saw his baby brother lying there, recovering from a suicide attempt.

He averted his gaze. He spoke slowly, carefully. "If I... back off... will you _promise_ me that I never have to see this again? That you won't-" Mycroft's mouth tightened into a brittle grimace.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the show of emotion. He would never say it, but Mycroft's being more emotional only made things harder for Sherlock. "I don't intend to try taking my life again," he said, sounding rather bored. In reality, he was almost hopeful. Maybe he'd get his freedom finally.

"Do you _mean_ that?"

"Obviously. This entire experience has gotten me nowhere. Rather pointless to repeat it, no?"

Mycroft glanced at him. "Fine," he says in a low voice. "Fine." He would back off. Obviously, his care for his brother was unwanted and caused more harm to Sherlock than Sherlock himself. However, he could never fully leave Sherlock's life, that much was certain.

Lestrade. He would keep Sherlock... functioning. And, even better, he could keep Mycroft updated about his brother and Sherlock would never need to know.

He kept his face unreadable as his mind started to formulate all sorts of plans. He felt infinitely better now that he had an idea of what to do.

"I'll let the Detective Inspector know that you'll be joining him," Mycroft said quietly. "And then I'll go."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and gave a small nod. "Thank you," he said quietly. It was obvious that Mycroft was scheming right now, but Sherlock honestly didn't care. He would have something to occupy himself with. Puzzles to keep him going. Sherlock began planning. He'd have to get a better flat, set up a website so that he wouldn't have to depend on Lestrade for cases. He'd have to find somewhere with a lab, for experiments that may prove essential. St. Bart's, maybe, though he had no idea how he would get in. Sherlock's eyes brightened considerably, full of life and light again. Hope was a powerful thing, and right now, he could find himself beginning to forgive Mycroft. A bit. For some things.

Mycroft looked upon his brother one more time, nodding curtly. He didn't wait for any sort of acknowledgement from Sherlock, however. He spun on his heel and left the room and the hospital quickly, ignoring the nurses who approached him as he briskly walked away. He typed out a text to the number he now saved as DI Lestrade's, telling him exactly what he had told Sherlock.

Maybe now Sherlock would get better. Perhaps Lestrade could become a friend of sorts to him. He would be better for Sherlock than Mycroft, anyway.


End file.
